


Glad You Came

by smallerontheoutside (theinvisiblequestion)



Series: Playlist [11]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinvisiblequestion/pseuds/smallerontheoutside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months after the gala, Clarke runs into a familiar face at the city's annual music festival.</p><p>(Inspired by The Wanted's song of the same name.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glad You Came

Clarke wanders the strip of market stalls that separates the festival’s two main stages. All the main bands and the festival’s big sponsors have their stalls here; the smaller bands, lesser sponsors, and most of the food stalls are crammed into the flea market that takes up the whole back field of the fairgrounds. Clarke stops at a merch stall for a band she heard yesterday, and she can barely hear the guy selling her the t-shirt over the band that’s playing on the big stage. She’s starting to get hungry, and she should really find Raven, but she’s not answering her phone, so Clarke pushes through the crush of people in the flea market until she finds a stand selling pulled pork sandwiches.

Clarke grabs a fistful of napkins because she’s chosen the messiest of messy festival foods and searches for somewhere to sit. There’s no seating in the market itself, and the picnic area is crammed full of festival-goers. The sun is long gone, and it’s too dark and crowded to walk and eat, so she sits on the grass at the edge of the picnic area and tries not to get barbecue sauce on her jeans.

Clarke pulls out her phone and looks up the festival schedule again. The main event is supposed to start soon, so Clarke gets up, wipes her face one more time, and finds a trash can for her dirty napkins. As she walks back through the main strip, she can hear the band start the first chords of the set. Her phone buzzes in her pocket; it’s Raven, demanding to know where Clarke is.

 _I’m on my way to the main stage_ , Clarke texts back. She walks slower while she’s texting, but in the poor lighting, she runs into someone anyway.

“Sorry,” she says over the music as she hits _send_ , not even looking up from her phone.

A hand on her arm stops her, and for a moment she thinks she’s run into an angry drunk—it happens to someone every year—but when she turns around, it’s _him_. Bellamy.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

She doesn’t know what to do. She hasn’t seen him in months. It’s completely moronic, but she sticks out her hand and says, “I’m Clarke. Clarke Griffin.”

He shakes it. “Bellamy Blake.” His hand is warm and work-roughened the way she remembers it. She frowns at the bandage on the back of it. “Work accident,” he explains. “I got caught in between some parts of an old car.”

“Oh.” She looks away from the bandage and up at his face. “I’m sorry.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, shrugging. “It was my fault.”

“No, I meant about… the gala.”

He nods. “I know.”

She glances behind her at the main stage, where the noise of the crowd is making it impossible to hold a conversation. “Can we go somewhere else?”

Bellamy shrugs and follows her toward the flea market, where the picnic area is a lot less crowded now that the main event of the night has started. She finds a table that doesn’t have ketchup or nacho cheese all over it and sits across from Bellamy.

“I don’t really know what to say,” she confesses.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“I didn’t know what to do,” she continues, ignoring him. “You said what you said and I was kind of angry about it, you know, for a while.”

He doesn’t say anything, just watches her with those dark, bright eyes.

She picks at the peeling paint on the wooden picnic table. “I’m sorry I was an asshole and I’m sorry I didn’t text you or call you or whatever.”

He puts a hand on hers. “It’s okay. I get it.”

She snorts. “That’s what you said _last_ time.”

He smiles. “I really didn’t mean to say what I said.”

Clarke frowns.

“No! No, not—Look, yeah, I liked you—a lot—but what I said…” He huffs, frowning. “It was a poor choice of words.”

Clarke feels incongruously happy for all the apologizing that they’re doing. She laughs a little. “How the hell did you _like_ me? I was _horrible_.” She knows, because now that campaign season is upon them, Abby has backed off of her ridiculous matchmaking nonsense and Clarke has regained some sanity and clarity.

Bellamy smirks. “You’re super hot when you’re angry.”

Clarke’s face heats. “That’s…” She stares at the peeling paint in front of her for a moment before she looks back up to Bellamy. “Look, the whole thing was a disaster waiting to happen, and I’m really sorry.”

He shrugs. “It was fun while it lasted.”

Clarke nods. “Yeah.” Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she pulls it out. Raven’s sent her six messages in the last five minutes. Clarke shakes her head and sets the phone on the table next to her.

“Hot date?” he asks.

“Nah, just Raven trying to convince me she hasn’t abandoned me.”

“Ah.”

There’s a long, mildly awkward silence, and Clarke wonders what happened to the easy smartass guitarist she met at a bar that one time. “So, are you and the guys playing at the festival?”

“Uh, yeah, we had a gig in the indie tent yesterday.”

“Oh.” She’s sad she missed it, and then she realizes she missed _him_. The paint on the table is suddenly very interesting to her, because if she’s been missing Bellamy all this time, then—

She looks up. Bellamy’s still looking at her, and in the harsh stadium lights she can see the freckles scattered across his face. His hair is shorter than she remembers it, but it still hangs over his forehead, and when she reaches up to push it back, there’s _more_ freckles. She pushes her fingers through his hair and it doesn’t tangle the way it used to, but he fights a smile; when her fingers linger on his jaw, he leans into them a little.

“Are you doing anything tonight?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Not really. Why?”

She smiles. “Can I buy you a drink, handsome?”


End file.
